Category Archives: Sexuality

If you're gonna post a scandalous Facebook pic, THIS is how to do it. We miss you, Apollonia.

Men spend an inordinate amount of time in the pursuit of encounters with sexy women. These encounters need not be in the real world, of course. I mean, I don’t have to tell you which industry is responsible for the big, beautiful broadband world we live in right now, do I? Hint: it involves naked people having sex.

But guys don’t need to satisfy our sex fix with explicit material. Women in sexy outfits, making sexy faces, hinting at sexy things that they might do will work just fine (while we’re in public, at least). Lucky for us, ladies seem more than happy to quench our thirst for this stuff, and the rise of social media has provided them with a huge hose to like, drown us in T&A. Sorry, Yeezy, but that’s a beautiful death.

From the crazy number of entries to American Apparel’s 2010 “Best Bottom Contest” to sites like ilikecurves.com (lots of pros, but plenty of amateurs in there), women love to let us know that they look sexy. And I love that they love it. I just wonder why they love it.

Don’t get me wrong. It makes my day when I see some fine ass lady has posted a picture of herself with a come-hither pucker on some juicy, shimmering lips, rockin’ a body-hugging dress so tight it appears to be a strange but erotic skin mutation. Freakum dresses are wonderful, splendid gifts from the gods and are right beneath leggings and biking shorts as the greatest fashion innovation since…well…clothes.

I’m just sayin’ though, it’s like you just walked up to everybody you’re cool with and said, “Me and my girls went to the club last night and I was lookin’ tatalicious: check out these blatant, semi-lesbian photos! But wait, there’s more! If you click right now, I’ll throw in this trunk-rattlin’ donk shot – tilt your laptop a little and you might even see some cheek pokin’ out!”

I loves it, but why are there SO many semi-scandalous pictures of you at the club? And of you in your bikini at the beach? And of you in your bikini at the club on the beach? I’m not buying that you got dressed and took those pictures for yourself, etc., etc. That argument barely holds water in the real world and the whole goddamned bottom drops out the bucket when you extend it to posting photos on Facebook. By definition, when you put that image on a social network, YOU WANT AS MANY PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE TO SEE IT. At least the ones in your personal network.

If you ask me, there’s such a preponderance of this behavior because a big segment of women want desperately to be sex symbols. It validates their self-image and shores up their self-esteem. I actually feel somewhat silly writing that because it’s not too controversial of a thought, really. Women know that men like attractive, sexually interesting (and interested) women, so why wouldn’t women want to appeal to that desire? We all do what we need to do to feel wanted, no matter the context. We all want to know that we contribute to the world in some way and to be recognized for it.

Of course, most ladies also want to be respected professionals, venerated spouses and adored parents, too. No one is denying or minimizing that fact. It’s just that until recently, as crazy as it sounds, it was a lot easier to be a great ad executive or professor or mom than it was to be a pin-up girl, at least for a big audience.

Facebook, Twitter and now Instagram, where the artsy sexy pics go to live, have changed all of that. Today, a woman can show everybody that’s she’s a mother AND a MILF, electronically gushing as compliments like, “OK WERK IT GUUUURRRL” and “Damn! Tell Craig he betta treat you rite!” just stream in. Cherie, the second year med student, need only tag herself in the mechanical bull shot with her girl Peaches to hint at how sweet a night out with the two of them might be. Dude, who needs King, FHM or even Playboy when you’ve got the muthaeffin’ News Feed?!

Again, I’m all for it. Self-expression, especially semi-nude self-expression of the female variety, is a moral imperative.

In fact, just to show my commitment to this noble principle, I’m inviting all you ladies to post your sexiest photo to www.facebook.com/scissorspeaks or tweet it to @scissorspeaks. The one who gets the most positive comments will win a date with me and I’ll interview you about your experience for an upcoming post – you’ll get to tell errbody how it really is. But here’s the catch: you’ve also gotta include a picture of you when you first wake up.

Everybody’s familiar with that phrase and, to some extent or another, can see the truth in it. If you spend your time eating a bunch of crap, you’ll look like a bunch of crap. If you consume only the finest food and drink, treating your body like a stone temple, you’ll look like a god…assuming you get your vegan ass off the couch and into the gym.

The thing is, the same axiom applies to dating, too.

People walk around so forlorn about relationships, wondering why old boy ain’t actin’ right or why homegirl is driving them up the wall. They sit there confounded and confused as to why they either can’t find anyone at all or why the relationships that they do end up in always seem to blow up quicker than a new Israeli settlement on the West Bank. Love is a 24-hour diner with a huge assortment of options, but they’re not feeling it at all. The problem is that they don’t know how to eat to live.

As with any diner, you’ve got four types of dishes from which to choose: Appetizers, Entrées, Desserts and Junkfood. Anybody that you meet is gonna fit into one of those categories. Unfortunately, the Love Diner doesn’t actually tell you which option goes in which group – you’ve got to be able to sort the muphuckas yourself. Lucky for you, I’m providing a cheatsheet to help you figure out what’s what the next time you’re feelin’ kinda hongry. (Look it up on Urban Dictionary or something.)

Here’s a description of each menu heading and what it translates to in the realm of romance:

Appetizers – These people serve two roles. When you’re young (or inexperienced), they get your feet wet and well…whet your appetite for love. If you make the wrong choice here, it’s not that big of a deal ’cause you’ve still got lots more eating to do. But, if you’ve been in the game for a while, you might be interested in an appetizer, too. This is somebody who you enjoy spending time with and is pretty damn tasty…but not entirely filling. That’s OK though! Only a dummy would expect to get full off an appetizer…right?

Entrées – For those of you who’ve never been to a restaurant (yet miraculously have computer access), or who have problems with extended metaphors even when they’re about as subtle as a whore from Ipanema, this is the main course. This guy or gal is what you’ve been waiting on all night. Do yourself a favor and order something substantial. Even if it doesn’t have the most gorgeous presentation, it might just hit the spot. Plus, I always find that food that’s too cute usually doesn’t fill up the plate or me, and that will only leave you longing for…

Desserts – Yum, yum, yum. Who’s got a taste for something sweet? For some people, dessert is their favorite part of the meal. In fact, it’s just so damn sexy that some folks even have it first. I ain’t mad at that. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with indulging in a little French Vanilla, Butter Pecan, Chocolate Deluxe. Shit, even Caramel Sundaes is gettin’ touched. Go ahead, lick the bowl. But see, the thing about dessert is that it may taste like heaven, but you ain’t gettin’ no real sustenance from said delectable delights. Oh, and need I say that if you eat too much sweet stuff, you might get sick?

Junkfood – This is a category that causes lotsa people lotsa problems, usually because they don’t even realize that they’re eating this crap. Why? Because some ladies and gentlemen fuck around and order junkfood as their entrée! Oh, this greasy, crunchy, saucy stuff tastes great and can certainly sate your appetite. Lord knows I’ve eaten so much pizza, spicy chicken sandwiches and french fries that you’d swear I was still gettin’ free public school lunch. But yo, the shit ain’t healthy. Are the big laughs and good sex worth all of the screaming and pure, unadulterated, high blood pressure inducing fuckery? Methinks not.

So, there you have it. Now all you’ve gotta do is make sure that you order the right meal at the right time. Sure, at some point you’re probably gonna need a nice, fairly healthy entree to get the job done. But damn, that don’t mean that you can’t grab some cakes and pies from time to time or get you a couple of appetizers to go! Sheeeeeit, they got a Two for $20 special up in this piece!

Know what you’re eating and why you’re eating it. Then you can enjoy your meal for what it is without starving yourself, i.e. taking a sex sabbatical, feeling guilty or leaving the table hungry. Bon appétit!

The ability to lie to oneself about matters of sexuality is one of the most captivating aspects of the female psyche. Accomplishing that requires a degree of mental fortitude that most unconflicted, straight men simply cannot achieve. We do alright when it comes to lying to women or other men, but we just don’t give enough of a shit to pull the wool over our own eyes. But women…women are different. You really want to believe the BS that you’re selling to everybody else.

I think my favorite example of this amazing mental wizardry is the sex sabbatical. You might not be familiar with the term (I may have just coined it…gotta look into that), but I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.

The idea is that a woman gets so fed up with men that she decides to give up sex for some amount of time. Actually, that’s just the sex sabbatical in its weak form. The strong form dictates that the woman gives up dating altogether. In both cases, she approaches this commitment to revirgination with the utmost gravity and dedication, like an addict just starting the march up the famous 12 Steps.

Unfortunately, just like her drunk and drugged counterparts, our heroine is just one false move from falling down those steps and bustin’ her ass, or in this case, having her ass busted.

Given the right stimulus, you will gone ‘head and get you some. A little Riesling, some Adele playing in the background, just the right combo of kisses on your neck and pressure on the inside of your left thigh…and you’re off the wagon. But hold on before you sign up for rehab, babygirl.

Sex is fundamental to the human condition. We quite literally need it, not just as a species, but as individuals, and denying our desire for it is futile at least and self-destructive at worst. That’s why the whole sex sabbatical phenomenon is a big, fat, blueballs-inducing shame. But who would put themselves in that predicament in the first place?

There are only two types of women that would arrive at the ridiculous conclusion that they should forswear sex. The first one isn’t capable of maintaining consistent relations with men in the first place, or as one female friend of mine said, “she ain’t on a steady d*ck diet.” That’s a classic sour grapes scenario of course, and for the purposes of this entry, not worth discussing. The other kind of woman is different though. She’s on a quest for power.

For some reason, real or imagined, this woman feels that sex has been her personal gateway to pain. As such, her mission is to regain control over her emotional life by blocking all entry to her Hidden Valley, thereby cutting heartache off at the pass. The problem is that this is a shortsighted measure. Men absolutely need to be responsible with women’s feelings, especially after nastytime. Y’all are delicate, and shit. But would Mr. Voltron have been any more sensitive if he hadn’t already slayed your robeast with his blazing sword? Childhood anime references aside, if you didn’t have sex with him, would he have treated you differently?

I think not. Holding out on sex might keep a ravenous man well-behaved for a while, but it’s not going to change who he is fundamentally. If dude is an unkind, inconsiderate prick, keeping him away from the goods ain’t gonna make him appreciate you more—it’s just gonna make you excruciatingly horny and ensure that he keeps regularly banging that waitress at Applebee’s. I mean, he’s gonna keep doing that regardless (ummm…he’s a prick), but at least you’d be getting some action, too!

Oh, and I interrupt this entry to bring you a very important news bulletin: not every guy you date is an asshole. The man sitting across from you might be a really cool person who sees you as a whole being, not just a piece of pie, waiting to get cut up. So, while y’all may not end up together over the long haul, there’s no reason why you both can’t enjoy a little desert before dinner.

Look, it’s obviously not a cool situation when the bull’s been dragging you around so long that you don’t even wanna ride the muphucka anymore. Who wants to get yanked and jerked around ’til they’re dizzy, then thrown down hard to the ground? OK, men…don’t answer that. Seriously though ladies, you can’t get the pleasure without the pain. That’s the price we pay to live life fully. So when it hurts, you just gotta brush yourself off, grab them horns with both hands, hop on top, and ride ’em, cowgirl!

Like this:

It’s a pleasantly warm and bright Sunday afternoon. On one of the first real days of spring, the squirrels are playfully scampering around the path to your boyfriend Kevin’s apartment, and there’s more than a touch of excitement running through you, too. You’re about to pay your man a surprise visit to celebrate this gorgeous day.

As you thrust the key into the lock, the butterflies do that little dance in your tummy. Elated smile. Walking in, those same butterflies rapidly morph into 50 pound stones. Pained grimace. You find yourself open-mouthed, staring at Lucinda (the only female friend of his that you never worried about) in a bright red apron, four-inch heels, what looks to be MAC Lady Danger lipstick, and nothing else, bent over the stove with Kevin behind her. You do NOT like the smell of what they’re cooking.

In fact, it’s safe to say that you’ve probably lost your appetite for the entire week. But should you lose your boyfriend, too? Probably not, and there are two good reasons why.

First off, in all likelihood his cheating had nothing to do with you. Yes, he broke a promise and probably your heart, right along with it. For that, he’s as wrong as two left shoes. But there’s a really good chance that his feelings for you are still just as strong as ever…it’s just that Lucinda’s ass looks like it’s pregnant with twins. His embrace of her body is not a rejection of your love. Dude just got caught up in the bootyliciousness, and I’d bet good money that if you give him a choice, he’ll choose you. If he doesn’t, then that means that you didn’t have his heart in the first place.

The second, more important reason why you might wanna reconsider closing the door on Mr. Lova-Lova is the fact that you ain’t no angel yourself. Please, don’t look all shocked. Yeah, you may not have physically done anything with your colleague Jamal, but you damn near got carpal tunnel rub-a-dub-dubbing to mental images of him in the shower. Plus, on more than a couple of occasions you even used him as a tool to push you toward the “little death” on those nights when Kevin just wasn’t killing you hard or fast enough. Oh, and since y’all work together, you go to lunch with Jamal at least twice a week, and when he can’t make it…your day just isn’t the same.

In my book, that makes you just as guilty as Kevin, if not more.

Yes. Kevin was definitely burying his bone in somebody else’s backyard. But you were having a whole ‘nother relationship with another man, complete with full on muthaphuckin’ emotional attachment! Where I come from, any real relationship is built on emotional bonds, not physical ones, so I’d say you and Jamal were going steady…even if it was only in your mind. I mean, your mind is the most important sex organ after all, and we’ve known this for millennia. The Bible says that “whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.” I may not believe the theology, but I’ll be damned (hopefully not) if this ain’t one of the Good Book’s many nuggets of wisdom.

Where the scriptures get it wrong is on the moral implications of said burning yearning: lust is a perfectly natural, amoral emotion, not a sin. You couldn’t stop yourself from lusting any more than you could stop poor white folks in Texas from voting against their interests. But, what you can do is acknowledge that those desires abide within both you and your partner. Don’t try to live in the illusion that no one else exists, ‘cause that will only lead to an unhealthy relationship with dangerously repressed feelings bubbling just beneath the surface. Science has my back on this, people. Apparently, being forced to block out other options actually ends up weakening a person’s resolve to stay committed, and who wants that?

So breathe for a second, little one. Collect yourself. Slowly walk over to the kitchen…and disrobe. On top of being the only girl-friend that you never suspected, you always thought Lucinda was sexy as hell.

Hey, it’s a beautiful day. Time to put a little work into your relationship!

You just broke up with your boyfriend two months ago. It’s Friday night, and none of your people want to go out ‘cause they’re either too exhausted from the work week, or they’re with their significant other doing things that lovers do. This leaves you bored and lonely, so you decide to roll out solo to the neighborhood night spot. The live band is rockin’ it, the drinks are cheap, and before you know it, you’re feeling as nice as a Care Bear on ecstasy.

Then you see this tall, handsome cat with great skin and a chiseled frame roll up to the bar. He sees you checking him out, so he smiles. Before long, you and Lorenzo are on the dance floor doing the Lambada to a dancehall version of “Milkshake”. Your oven is hotter than Grandma Patty’s on Thanksgiving afternoon. Like a true predator, Lorenzo can sense that this is the moment to make that move: he asks if you wanna take the party to his spot just two blocks away.

Your first thought is to say, “Hell yes,” but you vacillate for at least a minute. I mean, what would he think about you? What if he’s some kinda psycho? Crap! Did you remember to wax? But Lorenzo, the liquor, and your suppressed libido keep whispering sweet nothings in your ear. Before you know it, you’re off…and so are your jeans. The next morning, engaged in The Walk of Shame, you can’t help but ask yourself, “Am I a slut?”

Instead of just jumping into the answer, let’s take a look at a checklist designed to ensure that you always know what to do when you hear the call of the wild.

1. Are you sober, or at least in majority control of your motor functions? If the answer is no, then please, don’t do it. Any stand-up guy is turned off by girls who are fall-down drunk. Seriously, who wants to get close to somebody that might go all Mt. St. Helens with her stomach contents at any time? If the dude observes your state and still wants to bed you, he’s at least ethically challenged and maybe even mentally disturbed…which is a bad thing, for y’all taking notes. [Exception: If dude is shit-faced too, then feel free to stumble your alcoholic ass on down the road to perdition!]

2. Do you really need it? If you always “need” it, then I advise you to seek psychological counseling. Or a dildo. Or both. This is about those occasions when it’s just been forever and you’re going to literally re-virginate if not tended to quickly. In other words, it’s a smergency – a sex emergency.

3. Does it feel like destiny? You and this guy have been talking, dancing, and laughing the night away. He’s wonderful, he thinks you’re fantastic, and you’ve never felt this uncanny need to be one with anybody so quickly before. It just feels right. Guess what? It is! Go for it with the knowledge that you’re following the will of the universe. 20 years later when you’re sitting in your gazebo at your summer home at the Vineyard, chillin’ with Mr. Right, you’ll thank your horny, twenty-to-thirty-something self for making up that BS.

So ladies, the next time shit gets thick with no time to think, go ‘head and get busy off of basic instinct! Ask yourself those three simple questions and you can’t go wrong.

And oh yeah, I almost forgot. You are DEFINITELY a slut for getting with old boy that Friday night. I mean, c’mon, you just met him! Your momma would be ashamed!

Like this:

This is SUCH a better way to practice for our lip-reading class, Becky!

So, I like women.

I like the fact that they tend to have longer hair than do I, which they often style in interesting and attractive ways. I enjoy the fact that they often smell nice – kind of like a human fruit smoothie. I think it’s awesome that they can giggle innocently one minute and then in the next, moan hard like a field hand singing Negro spirituals. And of course, I also celebrate that they have mounds of sumptuous, inviting fat in places that would be…unsightly…on me.

Now, I know that there are plenty of ladies who openly like women just as much as I do. These women are called lesbians and bisexuals, and yes, they’re pretty cool. The thing is, I’m beginning to wonder whether those labels actually mean any damn thing when it comes to the fairer sex. More and more, it seems to me that a not-so-silent majority of women are just waiting for an excuse to whip out the organic vacuum cleaner for those um…hard to reach places.

You know I’m not making this crap up. Time after time, I’ve had conversations about sexual histories with female friends and friends-plus, and I gotta say that at least like 30% of them have either savored the decadent taste of cuchifritos or served that shit up on a platter themselves, at least once. That percentage climbs to like 60% if we talk about heavy petting (what the hell is light petting by the way, and why would you ever want to do that?) and 75% if we lower the threshold to good old lip-lockin’. I bet it could reach as high as 90% if we asked whether or not they’ve had recurring lesbian fantasies/desires.

So what gives? When asked, lots of my friends have provided a stock response. “The female form is just inherently more beautiful than the male form. It’s no wonder I find girls attractive.” Right. I hear you loud and clear and I’m down to start the “Breasts: Not Just for Babies” campaign whenever you are.

Check this though. George Clooney is a really handsome dude. And so damn suave. But I ain’t never, neva-eva, neva-eva thought about cuppin’ his Irish-American buttocks or handlin’ his twig and berries. I don’t care if he IS a friend of the blacks.

This flirtation with lesbianism has got to be about more than a mere appreciation of women’s curves. In fact, I’d argue that two complementary forces are at work, one positive and one negative.

On the positive side, women simply don’t have to contend with the pressure to conform to the same rigid sexual mores that men do. From an early age, doing anything that looks like it might be considered gay is beat out of you, verbally if not physically. This is despite the fact that scientists like Alfred Kinsey have tried to teach us that homosexual experimentation is a vital part of growing up. Meanwhile, girls are allowed to sleep in the same bed, hold hands in public and just generally be all up in each other’s space in a way that guys would be laughed out of recess for. The line of intimacy between them is just never as clearly defined, and that’s gotta be beneficial to emotional development. It no doubt has some dope implications beyond sexual interactions, too.

Unfortunately, men have found a way to subvert and exploit what could be a completely wonderful thing. For many of us, lesbians and bisexual women are less like individual human beings and more like sex toys that talk. (As far as I know, even those life-size latex joints can’t speak yet…and yes, I’ve looked.) Why dominate one female when you can dominate two and then watch them dominate each other? And it appears this is an inclination that plenty of women are more than happy to indulge. Thus, we end up with the boringly choreographed, juvenile scenes in “Girls Gone Wild,” our fascination with Nikki Minaj’s sexual inclinations and her obfuscations thereof, and bone straight women engaging in random public lestrianics. (Yes, my children, go forth and use “lestrianics” with my blessing.)

Don’t get me wrong. I’m definitely not saying that I somehow object to those ladies who decide to take a stroll down the Punani Path, even if it’s just for fun. I’m just wondering what’s really motivating all of this steamy, girl-on-girl action. If it’s a natural response to inherent or learned comfort with same-sex attraction, then great. It should be encouraged, and I should be invited. On the other hand, if you’re at a bar and you’re just doing it ’cause you think I think it’s hot, then that’s just sad. Plus, it probably means that your performance isn’t all that convincing. Get back in there and do it again, this time with FEEEELING!